


(I Always Feel Like) Somebody's Watching Me

by that_1_incident



Category: Criminal Minds, Jonas Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crime Fighting, Crossover, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_1_incident/pseuds/that_1_incident
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a riff on a "Criminal Minds" episode - a redux, if you will, of 1x18, also known as "Somebody's Watching" (or, if you're like me and enjoy assigning "Friends"-esque titles to things, <a href="http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lw0r176hsb1qflmdgo3_250.gif">The One When Reid Falls Into A Pool</a>). Essentially, Joe's being stalked by a psychotic killer who shoots people in the head, Reid and the gang investigate, and there are some surprising developments along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I Always Feel Like) Somebody's Watching Me

**Author's Note:**

> \- Much of the storyline and a significant portion of the dialogue were borrowed and adapted from "Criminal Minds" 1x18, along with the "Criminal Minds" characters themselves.  
> \- The lyrics at the beginning are from "Every Breath You Take," written by Sting, and those sampled later on are from "Make You Mine" by Claude Kelly, Nate Hills, Marcella Araica and Joseph Jonas. The title is a lyric from "Somebody's Watching Me" by Kennedy Gordy and Curtis Anthony Nolen.  
> \- This is likely the only Joe/Reid fic on the Internet, potentially because the pairing is too brilliant for most to conceive of but more probably because it's ridiculous.  
> \- None of this is real.

_Every single day and every word you say  
Every game you play, every night you stay  
I'll be watching you_

_Oh, can't you see you belong to me?_

Reid's not sure he likes Los Angeles.

It's not too far from Vegas, geographically speaking, but the air's different, somehow, along with the aura of the people. Sure, the Vegas strip has bright lights and the incessant _ching ching ching_ of slot machines, but LA seems flashier somehow - shallower, more extroverted, if a city can even have a personality. He wonders how one would go about profiling a city, and his pensiveness must show on his face because Gideon gently touches his arm as their car pulls to a stop, like he thinks Reid won't notice on his own.

"We're here," Gideon says, and Reid blinks as if waking from a dream, straightens his tie nervously and slides his long legs out of the vehicle. The two of them are in LA on business, but Reid's school friend owns a gallery in the area and Reid said he'd drop by. He's not really an art person - he deals in science, in absolutes, definitive answers where x equals one thing in particular and nothing else - but his New Year's resolution was to be more social, so, here he is.

Truth be told, he hadn't realized how hard it would be to switch off from BAU mode until he'd had to do it. It'd been so long since the last time, which probably contributed to the difficulty, but it makes him remember something Elle said once - about how, with a job like this, you can put your head down to work and glance up to realize twenty years have gone by. Sometimes he sees this... this _syndrome_ threatening to manifest itself in his team members; other times he thinks he sees it in himself, and he's not sure which is more terrifying.

Parker picks him out of the crowd, yells his name and comes over to envelop him in an embrace he's not quite comfortable enough to return. He looks "just the same," apparently, as if he hasn't done more than a decade of growing since they last saw each other - he's just the same old Spencer, only a bit more frayed around the edges.

"Spencer was the only twelve-year-old in our high school graduating class," Parker explains to Gideon, shaking his head and echoing, "Just the same."

"Thanks," Reid says awkwardly, attempting a smile. He's not sure it's really a compliment but doesn't know what else to say.

The three of them engage in small talk for a few moments, and Parker's in the middle of a noble attempt to hawk some of the gallery's contemporary art to Gideon when a man walks into the room whose very presence steals everyone's attention, or so it seems to Reid.

"Joe," Parker calls warmly, striding over to shake the man's hand and beckoning for Reid and Gideon to follow.

Reid has more pressing things on his mind, though, and glances back at Gideon. "Do I look twelve years old to you?"

"Fourteen," Gideon deadpans, and Reid purses his lips for a moment before wandering over to give the newcomer a crooked half-grin.

The man - Joe - appears to be about Reid's age, but exudes a considerably more self-assured air (which isn't difficult, Reid supposes a little self-deprecatingly). He looks dapper in an impeccably-fitting black suit with a somewhat shiny quality to it that Reid is quietly entranced by, and his eyes are a shockingly deep brown, dark and intense.

He leans toward Reid to introduce himself, and Reid wonders whether the name _Joe Jonas_ ought to mean anything to him. The intensity of Joe's eyes combined with the warmth of his hand and startlingly firm handshake lead Reid to stutter in reply.

"Hi, I - I'm, uh, Dr. Spencer... Reid?" he says like it's a question, even though he's pretty sure it's his actual name. "You... you, uh. I'm Spencer. You don't have to call me _Doctor_."

Honestly, being addressed as anything other than _Reid_ at this point makes him mentally balk, but about the only way to make this exchange more awkward is to tell the guy to call him by his last name, so _Spencer_ will have to suffice.

Joe nods slowly. "I won't," he confirms wryly, and there's what looks like a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, although Reid doesn't recall saying anything funny.

Reid's vaguely aware of Parker moving off to deal with a stray paparazzo snapping photos of Joe - who, apparently, is kind of a big deal - and Gideon gets pulled aside by a woman Reid thinks he hears introduce herself as one of the artists. She looks at Gideon with hungry, predatory eyes, and Reid maybe feels a little bit sorry for him. Joe, meanwhile, seems content with sticking by Reid for the immediate future, for a reason Reid can't begin to fathom but isn't all that interested in protesting.

"So, you're not from around here, are you?" Joe asks, his face relaxed and open.

He's either genuinely interested or extremely good at faking it. As a celebrity, one must become skilled at the latter rather quickly, Reid imagines, then internally chides himself for his unwarranted cynicism. Somewhere among the dismembered limbs and pallid corpses, abductions and sexual torment, his trust in humanity had begun to waver. He'd quite like to reaffirm it, but he feels too old to do that now, like he'd be trying to recapture the myth of Santa Claus after running through the physics in his head and realizing the insurmountable improbabilities.

"Me? No, I'm, uh - we're running a training service about profiling for the Los Angeles Police Department."

"Profiling?"

"Yeah, I'm with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI; we psychoanalyze crime scenes in order to gain a better understanding of the person who might have committed the offense."

"Psychoanalyze, huh?" Joe muses. "Are you doing that to me right now?"

Reid blinks. "What? No! I'm not psychoanalyzing you, I'm just..."

Joe grins at him and he leaves the sentence unfinished. "I'm kidding, man. You wanna go look at the artwork?"

Reid's about to ask _What artwork?_ when he remembers his primary purpose for being there and shifts his feet awkwardly. "Oh, yeah! Yes, sure, I'd. That would be - yes."

He should probably work on formulating some complete sentences in his head prior to delivering them, because winging it in this situation seems to be resulting in things coming out invariably garbled.

Joe gets that look in his eyes again like he's trying not to laugh, and Reid can feel his face heating up. He hastily turns his attention to the nearest piece of art, a photograph comprised of cobalt blues and electric greens. It's aesthetically pleasing, he supposes, but he's not sure why anyone would want to hang it on their wall.

"Does it make you feel anything?" Joe asks, gesturing to it with a glass of champagne he'd lifted from a passing tray.

"Like what?"

Joe gives him a half-shrug, and the corners of his mouth quirk into a quizzical smile. "Hey, man, I can't tell you how to feel."

Reid takes a deep breath and a chance. "Well, right now I feel pretty good."

He's not - he doesn't really _do_ flirting, but somehow he lets that slip out, and the way Joe raises an eyebrow makes his heart skip a beat and a tentative _maybe_ rise inside him in spite of itself. Before Joe can reply, though, Gideon blusters over and announces they're leaving.

"We're still looking at the exhibit," Reid protests, doing his best to hide the disappointment in his voice.

"Now."

Gideon glances over his shoulder, looking vaguely hunted, and Reid surmises that he may have received some unwelcome attention from the artist. Either that or the paparazzo came back and is now after _him_ , but while Gideon's a rock star in the profiling world, that doesn't exactly translate outside of it.

Reid turns back to Joe. "I - I guess we're leaving, so..."

"Reid, now."

Gideon is Reid's superior and Reid would normally obey him without question, but right now - right now, he's being a tad irritating.

"Nice to meet you," he manages, waving dorkily at Joe and then instantly regretting the action. After that, it's almost a relief to jog out of the gallery hot on Gideon's heels.

\--

It's their last night in LA, and after the exhibit, Reid and Gideon both elect to go back to their hotel rooms and end the evening on a quieter note. Reid's been in the city for nearly a week and he still finds it strange to be staying here without the weight of a case bearing down on him. Usually he spends his nights in hotel rooms pacing, going over files, reexamining crime scene photos for anything that might have been missed before finally laying his head down for a paltry few hours before a crack-of-dawn start the next day. Relaxing is harder than he thought.

He has no idea what Gideon's currently doing with his time - turning in early, channel-flipping, going over the session notes to determine what can be done better next time - but he, somewhat guiltily, goes over to his laptop and types _Joe Jonas_ into Google Images.

There are pictures of Joe with a number of different hairstyles: clipped short, like tonight, then long and choppy, and longer still with a shiny swoop of bangs over his left eye. In some, he looks terribly young - mid teens, maybe - and Reid suddenly feels uncomfortable looking in on his life like this. Joe's not an unsub or a victim, after all, and just because his photo is plastered all over the Internet, that doesn't give Reid the right to snoop.

He closes the computer with a knotted feeling in his stomach and cracks open a book on nuclear fission instead.

\--

Their LAPD liaison, Detective Owen Kim, escorts them to their car the next morning and insists on driving them to the airport despite Gideon's protestations.

"I didn't invite the FBI here to let them make their own way around town," Kim says. "I can't thank you guys enough for conducting the seminar."

"Well, don't hesitate to call if there's anything we can help with," Gideon tells him, hauling his travel bag into the trunk.

As Reid follows suit, Kim's cell phone goes off, and he has a brief, terse conversation that piques both agents' interest. Gideon's more discreet about it than Reid, but Reid can tell in the way his shoulders stiffen slightly that he's eavesdropping on the part of the exchange he can hear.

"Everything all right?" Gideon asks after the detective hangs up.

Kim shakes his head. "Double murder at a Hollywood bungalow - a celebrity. A young actor, Nathan Ryan, and his fiancée were apparently shot to death. It's gonna be a major pain in the ass."

He sighs. Reid knows his department's been getting some bad press lately - the LAPD is overburdened, understaffed and one of its own recently hung the department out to dry in a widely publicized overtime lawsuit, so they likely need a high-profile case about as much as a hole in the head at this point.

"Hey, you guys care to take a quick look before I drive you to the airport?" Kim asks hopefully. "It's on the way."

"Absolutely," Gideon tells him, and Reid indicates his assent with a nod before sliding into the back seat.

\--

Half an hour later, they walk into an immaculately put-together bungalow with magnolia walls, a tan carpet and a heavy oaken front door - immaculate, that is, except for the body of a young man lying prone on the couch and a woman of a similar age slumped, bloodied, at his feet.

"The male was shot execution style, once in the head; the female, three times in the torso," Reid notes as he and Gideon approach the bodies, wading through a sea of crime techs to do so.

"Two different MOs," Gideon echoes.

Kim walks in behind them, looking somber. He'd been outside talking to the officers who'd arrived on the scene first, and if possible, his expression looks grimmer. "We have an image on Ryan's video surveillance camera. He's unidentifiable."

"There's no sign of struggle between the male and the unsub from the door to the couch; the unsub most likely forced him at gunpoint," Reid says.

"He told him to trust him," Gideon adds. " _Do what I say, and I won't hurt you._ "

"Fatal mistake," Kim comments.

Reid nods, elaborating, "He asked the victim to sit on the couch and then shot him in the head."

Gideon turns his attention to the female. "The fiancée wasn't expected. Her killing's messier. It's less controlled, less organized." He looks over at Kim. "What do you think?"

"We've had a couple of other cases like this over the past few months. Same type of weapon - a .22 caliber handgun. Both shot in the head. The first was an established film producer, Wally Melman, and the second was Clayton Harris, another young actor, although not as well-known as Nathan here."

"Any forensic evidence?" Reid asks.

"No. And the guys have been going through this place all morning and haven't come up with anything."

"He clearly knows how to cover his tracks," Gideon says.

Kim frowns. "Like a professional hitman?"

"Maybe."

Reid glances to his left, drawn by movement and flashes at a side window. "Uh... Gideon? There are people taking photographs of us from the next yard."

Kim, seemingly unfazed, looks up from the bodies. "Welcome to LA."

\--

Although some more pieces of the puzzle are needed before the three crimes can be designated as serial killings, it certainly appears they're connected. At Kim's request, Gideon and Reid agree to stick around, and the BAU jet takes off for LA within the hour carrying the rest of the team. So much for relaxation time; not that Reid had been doing too much of that anyway, between assisting Gideon with the profiling class and Googling pictures of Joe Jonas.

On the jet, Hotch, JJ, Morgan and Elle work up the profile with Reid and Gideon on video link. The unsub had targeted the other two victims at sites they routinely visited - Harris while walking his dog on the beach and Melman outside a Culver City massage parlor at which he had a standing appointment every Tuesday. The familiarity with their schedules suggests the unsub stalked them for a while prior to their deaths, indicating he has the ability, as Hotch puts it, to hide in plain sight.

"The media's calling Nathan Ryan's murder the biggest celebrity homicide since Sharon Tate," JJ informs them.

"What does that mean for us?" Elle asks.

Hotch presses his lips into a firm, unsmiling line. "Everybody will be watching."

\--

Once the rest of the team arrives in LA, they're able to further narrow the profile to a Type Four assassin, meaning the unsub suffers from a mental disorder that makes him - and it's almost certainly a him - frequently delusional. The key to catching him is to figure out the delusion before any more people die, which is set to be a tall order unless they can zero in on any more clues.

\--

They hold a private briefing with Kim after they've drawn up the profile, but it's soon interrupted by a tall, heavy-set black male with a concerned expression on his face.

"Is there a Detective Kim here?"

"Right here," Kim answers.

"You're in charge of investigating the Nathan Ryan murder, right?"

Kim answers in the affirmative.

"My name is Robert Feggans. I'm a bodyguard, and one of my clients..." The man trails off, eyeing the team, and Reid gazes back impassively, used to the unnerving effect their presence can have. Feggans directs his attention back to Kim. "Is there anywhere we can talk privately?"

"We're all working this murder."

The man shifts on the balls of his feet. "Okay, well, uh. My client - he's waiting in the other room - just received a note that kinda rattled him. We're used to receiving crazy stuff, but this..."

He holds out a magazine article about Ryan's murder, complete with photo. The dead man's face is circled and scrawled across the text in blood red letters are the words _YOU OWE ME_ in jagged, uneven script. Serial killers, like doctors, never seem to have good handwriting.

Morgan stands up instantly, recognizing the threat for what it is, and Reid follows him out of the conference room, across the bullpen and into a smaller room off to the side. Joe Jonas is there, nursing a cup of coffee and staring absently at nothing, and Reid does a double-take that thankfully escapes Morgan's notice.

"Joe, hi!" he exclaims, hearing his voice soften around the edges, and, wow, okay, so much for being stealthy. Morgan looks at him with this deeply confused amusement, as if to say, _Who are you and what have you done with Spencer Reid_?

Joe looks around in disbelief, the hint of a smile breaking through the worried lines of his face. "Spencer!" he says warmly, and somehow, from him, Reid's first name doesn't sound weird at all.

\--

The rest of the team join Reid and Morgan quickly, and they soon get down to questioning Joe.

"How well did you know Nathan Ryan?"

Hotch kicks off the interview after all the necessary introductions have been made and Reid's done his best not to fidget when he's introduced as _Doctor_. Joe's eyes meet his and he looks drawn, tired, but there's still a friendly spark of recognition underneath it all. If they were alone, Reid might attempt a joke about how _now_ might be an appropriate time to call him _Doctor_ , so all things considered, it's probably best that they're not.

"Uh, Nathan and I were acquaintances, I guess?" Joe answers, sliding his gaze away from Reid. "We spoke when we saw each other in public, but we were never friends."

"How about Wally Melman?"

Joe looks clueless.

"Wally Melman," Elle echoes. "The producer who was killed a couple of months ago."

Joe's cluelessness gives way to confusion as he protests, "The paper said that was a robbery."

"The paper was wrong," Hotch responds brusquely. "Did you know him?"

"We met a few times about a project - I'm trying to get into acting - but I ended up not getting the part. They went a different way."

"Which way?" Elle questions.

"They cast, um..." Joe's face pales. "Oh, jeez."

Reid resists the urge to reach out and touch his arm. He really needs to get a hold of himself. "What is it?"

"They cast Nathan Ryan."

\--

Joe can't think of a direct connection with Clayton Harris, but when Elle holds up Harris' headshot, the likely reason he was targeted immediately becomes clear.

"He looks a lot like you, don't you think? A potential rival."

"He was murdered too?" At Hotch's nod, Joe swallows hard. "So all these people are being killed because of me?"

"It's possible," Hotch hedges, never willing to put all his eggs in one basket.

"What does that mean for my brothers?"

Reid frowns in thought. "You have brothers?"

Joe stares at him. "Nick and Kevin?" he says slowly, like he's not sure Reid's for real. "We're the Jonas Brothers?"

Reid blinks. "Well, the unsub seems to be focusing on people he perceives as constituting a professional threat to you, which suggests your family wouldn't be of interest to him, but do they live in the local area?"

"Uh, Kev lives in New Jersey and Nick's starring in a Broadway show right now. And then there's Frankie, who lives with our parents in Texas."

"Nick's an actor too?"

"You really don't know?"

"Okay, we're getting sidetracked here," Morgan interjects, holding up his hands. "Reid, the Jonas Brothers is a band that's primarily popular among teenage girls." He glances at Joe. "No offense."

"That's fair," Joe says with a shrug. "But we're taking some time off from the band to work on our own stuff. For Nick, that's Broadway. For me, it's my solo project with some acting on the side. And Kevin got married not too long ago, so he's doing the whole stay-at-home thing right now."

So, Joe's in a boy band. Reid's not really up to speed on popular music, but he remembers the girls at his high school swooning over the Backstreet Boys and tries to imagine Joe dancing in a white suit.

He clears his throat. "As I said, given their geographic locations, I'm pretty confident they're unlikely to be targeted. The unsub seems to be focusing on people who reside in LA."

Joe lets out a sigh of relief. "Okay," he says, half to himself. "So my brothers aren't in danger. Okay, good."

Reid's kind of touched by the fact that Joe asked about the safety of his brothers before sparing a thought for his own well-being. He sees that a lot with parents of victims, with spouses, but not as much among siblings, unless they're especially close. He supposes working with one's brothers will do that.

"What - what about me?" Joe asks finally, looking like he's not sure he really wants to know the answer.

Reid knows he won't like this, but he has the right to know the truth, to be aware of the risk posed to him.

"The fact that he's contacting you indicates he believes you owe him something," Reid explains. "This model frequently concludes itself with one of two possibilities - either the stalker will kill himself, or he'll kill the object of his affection."

\--

Hotch calls a briefing so they can get the local PD up to speed, and embarrassingly, Reid's unable to fully focus on the session. Joe's dark, worried eyes keep flashing through his mind as Hotch talks about their compound profile - a Type Four delusional assassin with an erotomanic fixation.

Morgan takes over to provide the definition of erotomania, and Reid forces himself to snap to attention.

"Erotomanics are a form of stalker who possess the delusional belief that another person, usually of a higher social status, is in love with them," Morgan's saying.

"In the United States at any given time, there are over 200,000 people being stalked," Elle continues. "Our unsub is having a fantasy love affair with the singer Joe Jonas, the way John Hinckley did with Jodie Foster."

"Mr. Jonas was not aware of his stalker until yesterday. The unsub wasn't trying to impress him; he was more like an unwanted, very violent guardian angel," Hotch explains.

"When stalkers feel as if they've been in some way betrayed by their love object, this often leads to violence against the target," Gideon adds, deferring back to Hotch to outline the specifics of the profile.

"Though stalkers can be either male or female, it's most likely we're looking for a single, Caucasian male in his mid-twenties to early forties, very intelligent, with ample time to follow his victim and study his habits."

Reid picks up Hotch's verbal thread. "As of yet, the unsub has not directed any violence towards Mr. Jonas, but he has shifted his focus from those around Mr. Jonas to him directly."

"This doesn't preclude the fact that anyone who has the vaguest association with Mr. Jonas is a potential target," Gideon notes. "The unsub appears to be keeping his focus local, so Mr. Jonas' family members are not thought to be at risk even though they're high-profile. However, as a precaution, they've been advised to stay out of Los Angeles for the time being. Now, does anyone have any questions?"

An officer Reid vaguely recognizes from the training sessions raises his hand. "So it's safe to assume this guy is a gay male?"

"Gay or bisexual," Hotch says mildly, "but his friends and family may not necessarily know about his predilections, nor might he make them obvious."

Reid squirms.

"So in other words, that doesn't help us narrow down the kind of person we're looking for?" the officer queries.

"Not really, no." Hotch sets down the file he's been brandishing on one of the desks the BAU commandeered for the presentation. "If there are no more questions," (he looks around; there aren't) "then let's get to work on catching this guy."

\--

It strikes Reid as morbidly funny that not even twenty-four hours earlier, he'd been chastising himself for looking at photographs of Joe without consent, and now it's necessary to go through the man's entire career for clues to the unsub's identity. Now that the unsub's established contact, the team expects him to reach out to Joe again soon, so everyone's in what Hotch calls a holding pattern and the more chess-minded Gideon characterizes as waiting for their opponent's next move. They'd advised Joe to live his life as usual but keep them posted on his whereabouts, so right now he's at the studio working on his album and the team's at LAPD headquarters rifling through his professional history - or, at least, they are until Hotch's cell phone rings.

It's their move now.

\--

_Joe - I've always been so good to you.  
Why would you go to the police?_

Gideon reads the message off a piece of looseleaf paper that had been left under one of the windshield wipers of Joe's car and retrieved by a passing friend of his earlier that day. The team is holed up in one of the meeting rooms at the studio, poring over the note like it's the Rosetta Stone that holds the key to breaking the case.

"I'm intrigued by this particular version of the verb _to be_ ," Gideon comments.

"Past participle," Reid notes.

Gideon nods. "Steady state of being. Preceding adverb - _always_."

"In English?" Kim asks.

"That is English, actually," Reid chips in. "We're discussing the verb tenses of the -"

"Reid." He falls silent, and Gideon continues, "Our stalker sounds like someone Joe knows, based on the tense of the verb."

Morgan frowns. "Maybe it's time to get him off the street."

"You know, there's been no physical threat to him, so he might be safer just staying put as opposed to moving anywhere else," Reid counters.

"Uh, I'm right here, guys. I can hear everything you're saying."

Reid had honestly forgotten Joe was present, sitting in a chair at the other end of the table, the sleeves of his simple black hoodie pulled down over his hands. The left one is starting to fray, and Joe keeps worrying at the threads with his fingers.

"If we did remove you, we'd have to take you to an undisclosed location," Gideon tells him without saying sorry, as if the way he directly addresses him serves as apology enough. "I'm sure your stalker knows where you live."

"I'm not interrupting recording," Joe says firmly. "I want to get this thing out before the end of the year. It's like, I don't know, like my baby." He looks a bit embarrassed by the comparison, but there's a flush of pride there too. "I just wanna get it out into the world and show people what I created, you know? For the first time, it's something that's just mine."

Reid's not sure how to react to that sentiment, but he admires it. He doesn't say anything, and neither do his colleagues.

"Look," Joe continues, sounding frustrated. "I've decided that I'm not gonna be afraid of this lunatic. I'm not gonna let him affect me. So just tell me - am I safe here?"

"We're running background checks on all the staff, cleared the building of all nonessential personnel and have increased security at the gate," Kim answers. "In short, you're probably safer here than almost anywhere else."

"In that case," Joe says, abruptly rising from his chair, "I'm going back to make music."

Reid watches him leave, momentarily distracted by the small sliver of skin that's exposed where the hoodie doesn't quite meet the waistband of Joe's jeans. The door clicks shut, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"I didn't want to say anything in front of him, but the unsub's anger about Joe consulting the authorities suggests he might alter his agenda," Gideon points out. "Joe didn't go to the police alone."

"His bodyguard took him," Morgan says, nodding.

Now it's Gideon's turn to rise, pulling on his jacket as he does so. "You and Reid keep an eye on Joe. I'm going to talk to Mr. Feggans."

\--

Reid's never been in a recording studio before, and it strikes him how oddly impersonal the album-making process is. Joe's in the sound booth alone, but three men are watching in addition to Reid and Morgan, two fiddling with dials and slides on the intimidatingly complex-looking piece of equipment in front of them while the other - the Jonas Brothers' bass guitarist; also the friend who found the note - nods his head along with the beat.

_Tell me what you want and I'll give it  
Just as long as you know where we're headed  
Back to my place when it's all over, oh, oh..._

Reid's not really a contemporary music person, but the song's nothing if not catchy, and it's obvious Joe's pouring himself into singing it. He even finds that he's tapping his foot at one point, much to Morgan's amusement.

Morgan himself seems more interested in the technical aspect of the whole thing and asks an inordinate number of questions, but nobody really seems to mind. The guitarist, on the other hand - Garbowsky, if Reid remembers correctly - appears content to sit back and survey the proceedings, and Reid follows his lead, watching Joe sing the song through a couple more times and then repeat certain lines until the sound guy and producer are satisfied.

"Take five while we mix those and then we'll see what we've got," the producer says into a microphone, and Joe nods from the booth before lifting the headphones off his ears.

There's a table at the back of the room with a coffee dispenser on it, in addition to water bottles and some kind of herbal tea Reid guesses is supposed to soothe Joe's vocal cords. Joe heads right to it and Reid feels vaguely conspicuous as he sidles up to the singer, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

"Sorry if I was... insensitive earlier," Reid begins haltingly. "We just, ah." He fiddles with the half-empty bottle of Diet Coke he's been nursing all afternoon and wishes being around Joe didn't tie his tongue in knots. "We kind of get wrapped up in the victimology sometimes," he manages, getting the absurd urge to award himself a prize for actually saying something intelligible. "I didn't mean to talk about you like you weren't there."

Joe shrugs. "You were just doing your job, right?"

Reid nods.

"Then there's no need to apologize, man."

Reid takes an awkward sip from the bottle just to have something to do with his hands, and they stand in silence for a moment before Joe drinks a little tea and makes a face.

"Ugh," he says, reaching for Reid's Coke. "You don't mind sharing with me, do you?"

His fingers brush Reid's as he takes the bottle without waiting for an answer, and Reid needs a second to process the tingly sensation this elicits before he can respond.

"No," he says weakly, and Joe grins at him before taking a long swig, pressing the bottle back into Reid's hand and heading over to talk to the producer. Reid haltingly puts it to his lips after staring at it dumbly for a few seconds, and becomes aware of Morgan ambling over to him just a few seconds too late.

The other man has a smirk on his face as he leans against the edge of the table in his cocky Morgan way.

"You don't mind sharing with _me_ , do you?" he asks, and Reid, still drinking, only narrowly avoids choking.

"Shut up," he mutters, jamming the cap back on the bottle, and Morgan laughs and laughs.

\--

Joe's back in the sound booth laying down some more vocals when Reid's cell phone rings with a call from Gideon.

"Feggans is dead," Gideon says without preamble, and Reid's breath catches in his throat, his eyes darting directly to Joe.

Joe's laughing into the mic at something the producer said to him, eyes glimmering with mirth as they had on the first night Reid met him, and all Reid can think about is how he'll ever find a way to break the news.

"Up until now, every victim was a person who could've been perceived as a threat. Feggans was an ally, a friend," he says quietly, glancing around to make sure no-one's in earshot, but they all appear focused on Joe.

"He was a threat to the stalker," Gideon points out darkly. "We have to get Joe to a safe house. Take him home, have him pack some things."

Reid's gaze finds its way back to the man in question. "He's going to be devastated."

Gideon's stern, businesslike tone softens. "I know."

It's probably not the smartest thing in the world for Reid to betray more than a professional level of concern for Joe, but the thing is, he can't exactly seem to help it.

"JJ's keeping it out of the press for now," Gideon continues. "Let's not tell Joe yet."

"Not tell him?"

"We need him to cooperate with us," Gideon says calmly, and Reid knows he's right but at the same time, how is he supposed to look Joe in the eyes and _not_ tell him - basically lie by omission? "It'll help us protect him."

That, more than anything, gets through to Reid, but when Joe meets his eyes through the window of the sound booth and aims a goofy salute in his direction, he feels his heart plummet in his chest.

\--

The plan is to deny the stalker access to Joe in order to draw him out. The team, including Morgan, chases down leads with Kim while Reid accompanies Joe to his apartment. There's a police cruiser already outside the building when they pull up, and Joe shrugs it off but has the grace to allow some of his nervousness to show.

He lives in a corner apartment high above the city that has two walls of solid glass for windows ("Inconspicuous," Reid mutters, and Joe grins and rolls his eyes). Modern furniture fills the space, and artwork, framed photos and movie posters add splashes of color to the stark white walls.

"I like your place," Reid murmurs, zeroing in on a piece that's hanging above the couch. Sometimes he can't remember what his own walls look like, he spends so little time at home. Lately when he gets a chance to go back there between cases, he's found himself vaguely surprised by the titles on his bookshelves, the tchotchkes on the kitchen counter.

"I'm barely ever here, but I like it too." Joe laughs, following Reid's eyeline. "That's a photographic collage. I like it because it's like life, you know? Obscure. Kinda fantastic."

Now it's Reid's turn to laugh. "There's a stalker after you and you think your life is fantastic?"

Joe shrugs and holds out his arms, gesturing to his surroundings. "I have all this, don't I?"

Reid doubts he'll be so chipper after he finds out Feggans is dead - Big Rob, as Joe calls him - and although a part of him aches to break the news just to get it over with, he knows he has to follow Gideon's orders.

"That's a good outlook to have," he says instead, meaning it, and Joe shoots him a grin that's wide and happy and completely unguarded.

They smile at each other for a few seconds, which makes Reid feel awkward and a little bit thrilled all at once, and then Joe breaks off to go grab them some drinks from the gleaming stainless steel kitchen. Reid's not sure whether to follow him so he ends up staying in the living room, tracing the fractured images of the collage with his eyes.

\--

He's still looking at the collage when Joe comes back into the room shortly afterward, holding two mugs of steaming coffee. It's already dark outside, but neither of them is under any illusion that they'll be getting much sleep tonight, so the caffeine jolt won't be a problem.

With both hands full, Joe nudges Reid with his hip to get his attention, and although Reid was aware of him approaching, he still jumps slightly at the unexpected contact.

"Hey, listen, if you see any of the guys from the studio again, leave out the part of this whole mess that involves me drinking coffee, okay?"

Reid tilts his head, curving his hands around the hot mug. "You're not supposed to?"

"I'm _encouraged_ not to," Joe drawls, making air quotes with the fingers of his free hand and laughing at himself. "It dries out your vocal cords or something. But I've been pretty good about avoiding it, and I'm basically done recording now, I think."

"Actually, it's not the coffee that's a dehydrant, but the caffeine contained within it," Reid points out. "Caffeine's a diuretic, meaning it provides a means of forced diuresis - fluid production - which elevates the rate of urination, and that kind of substance can, as you say, dry out your vocal cords. But some people are more sensitive to diuretics than others, and you seemed to be doing just fine at the studio after you drank my Coke, so I wouldn't be overly concerned."

Joe's staring at him with a bemused expression on his face.

"I would, however, recommend decaf," Reid concludes with a perfunctory nod, getting the vague sinking feeling that talking about elevated urination rates probably wasn't an appropriate tangent to take, and Joe's face splits into a smile.

His reaction reminds Reid of how Morgan gets around him sometimes - grinning, huge and goofy, about things he said that weren't even remotely funny. It's par for the course when dealing with Morgan but Reid isn't as sure how to react when it's Joe, although maybe he doesn't have to be because by now Joe's turned his attention to the collage.

"This make you feel anything?"

Reid gets an abrupt sense of _déjà vu_ and for a second his mind transports him back to the art gallery, except this time there's no Gideon around to interrupt.

"It's definitely... appealing..." he manages uncertainly, not entirely sure they're only talking about the picture anymore. He clasps his mug tighter until the sensitive nerves at his fingertips start to prickle at the heat.

Joe leaves his side abruptly at that point, and Reid turns when he hears the other man's footfalls on the burnished wooden floor.

"What are you doing?" he asks, beginning to follow.

Joe puts his mug down, throws open one of the windows (which apparently also functions as a door) and strides out onto the balcony.

"Today was stressful. I need some hot tub time."

There's a note in his voice that would've led Reid to detect that there was more to it than that, had he not been too concerned for Joe's safety to pay the necessary amount of attention. Some profiler he is.

"What?! Joe, you can't!"

He hadn't noticed until now, but Joe's shorts have been replaced with a bathing suit. His quick-change presumably occurred while he was out of Reid's line of sight, purportedly preparing their coffee in the kitchen - which just _happens_ to be next to his bedroom. Before Reid can say anything further, Joe pulls off his shirt and cannonballs in.

It's a - well, it's a hot tub, and a large one at that, although Reid hadn't recognized it as such at first glance due to the fact that it has a raised deck around it into which it's submerged. He saw the deck on his brief tour of the house earlier, but dismissed it as an outdoor bar or something.

Joe causes a pretty significant splash and some of the spray mists onto Reid's shirt, leaving dark speckles on the fabric. Reid winces, his hands fluttering against the frame of the open door.

"Joe, you cannot be doing this right now."

Joe tosses his hair back, the dark strands slicking against his head. "Come on, man, five minutes. You should join me. There are bathing suits in the bedroom; top drawer on the left."

Reid can't believe he's even hearing this. "We're supposed to stay inside!" he says shrilly. "You're meant to be packing so my team can take you to a safe house because you're being pursued by a psychotic killer who _shoots people in the head_! So, no, I will not _join you_!"

Joe rolls his eyes. "C'mon, live a little."

" _Live a little_?! I've known you forty-eight hours; I feel like I've already aged ten years."

Joe folds his arms defiantly, droplets clinging to the lashes that frame the huge dark eyes Reid's trying not to look directly into for fear his resolve will waver.

"I'm not gonna stop living my life," he says mulishly. "This guy - this _unsub_ , whatever you call him - if I start changing the way I do things because of him, he's gonna think he's won."

Reid sighs. "I get it, all right? I do. But your security is paramount, and unfortunately right now that's going to infringe on your freedom. My primary responsibility here is to watch over you and keep you safe until the others get here."

Joe touches his hand to his heart, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Why, Spencer, I didn't know you cared," he breathes girlishly, that grin sweeping across his face again, and Reid feels his cheeks start to heat up.

They stare each other down for a few moments in a battle of wills before Joe drops his gaze and, sighing resignedly, glides to the edge of the hot tub.

"Fine," he says, sounding defeated. "Will you help me out, at least?"

Reid rolls his eyes, followed by his shirt sleeves, and leans down to grab Joe's hand.

Joe isn't big but he's muscular, and he also has the element of surprise on his side. As soon as his hand grips Reid's, his eyes glint impishly and Reid realizes he got scammed.

"Joe," he warns - quite fruitlessly, of course - and Joe lets out a whoop of delight as he falls into the hot tub with a terrific and terribly undignified splash.

\--

The hot tub isn't deep, but it takes Reid a second to get his bearings underwater before pushing up to the surface, breaking the roiling meniscus with a splutter. Joe's laughing so hard it sounds like a cackle, but Reid's _wet_ and _cold_ and he _liked_ this tie, damn it, and to top it all off, his FBI-issued gun is at his belt, which will be a really excellent thing to explain to the weapons guys back at Quantico.

"Yes, very funny," he says frostily, trying to salvage some shred of dignity by attempting to tuck his sodden curtain of hair behind his ears. "Laugh it up, Joe. Hilarious. And my gun's wet. This is great."

He fishes it out and water streams from the holster. Joe looks at him, then at the gun, then back at him again, cracking up hard enough that his glistening shoulders are shaking, and Reid stops being angry and starts thinking the whole thing is a little bit funny instead.

"My clothes..." he protests lamely, even as the laughter bubbles up in his throat.

Joe shrugs, sliding closer to him. "You should've worn one of my bathing suits," he veritably purrs.

Reid, who'd been tapping his watch experimentally to see if it was still working, huffs out a laugh and wonders briefly what Joe's true intentions were in proffering a suit earlier. He doesn't get a chance to respond further before Joe grabs his tie - hesitant at first, then more decisive - and pulls him forward, touching their mouths together. 

It's at once a surprise and yet not. If Reid's honest, he's been dancing around Joe virtually since the moment they met, he just never thought anything would - y'know, _come of it_.

Joe's hand effortlessly molds against the back of his skull, and at the press of the other man's lips, Reid feels as if a huge weight of avoidance has been lifted off his shoulders. Something's definitely coming of it.

He pulls away reluctantly, their mouths making a smacking sound as they disengage. "This is completely inappropriate."

Joe cups his jaw tenderly and attempts to brush the hair off his face, a startlingly intimate gesture that makes Reid's insides flutter.

"Please?" Joe asks, voice suddenly soft and cajoling, as if Reid's a deer that - that stumbled onto Joe's woodland picnic or something, and Joe doesn't want to scare him away.

He tugs Reid in for more and Reid acquiesces helplessly. Their mouths meld and Reid even detects a hint of tongue on Joe's part before jerking away once again and trying to steel himself against Joe's wiles. This _is_ completely inappropriate, and Joe's probably only experiencing these feelings for him because of the situation with the unsub. It's a common psychological reaction, but definitely not one he should be facilitating.

The other man's fingers are in his hair now, and as if of their own accord, Reid's hands creep up to tangle in Joe's. They kiss desperately for a couple more seconds before Reid breaks away again, shaking his head.

"No, see, there's this thing called transference..."

He's read definitions of the phenomenon in a thousand different books, the exact phraseology from all of them popping into his head simultaneously - his eidetic memory strikes again - but somehow they all feel as if they'd be falling short.

"You don't like me?" Joe teases.

"What? Are you cra - no, I, I do!"

"I like you," Joe admits coyly.

"I like you too!" Reid reassures him a tad too hastily to be suave, but playing things cool isn't exactly his most pressing concern right now. "Just, I'm a, uh, f-federal agent, you know, I'm supposed to... protect you."

"You said that already," Joe points out, smiling, and Reid's mystified by how he can be so calm about this. "Hey, besides, can you think of a better way to protect me than keeping me this close?"

Reid swallows. He hadn't realized Joe kept a hold on his tie this whole time until now. He feels a slow tug on it, as if Joe's emphasizing their proximity.

"I'm just - I'm a bit worried, you know..." he begins, stalling the inevitable, and Joe kisses him again, sweet and quick. "We're in a hot tub," he continues, only just managing to state the obvious before Joe repeats the motion. There's the unmistakable tang of chlorine on his lips. "And it's, uh." Reid's beginning to lose his train of thought here. "We're," he tries again between kisses, "pretty much exposed."

"We have cops posted out front," Joe points out, and their torsos are pressed together now, Joe's bare skin slick against the drenched fabric of Reid's shirt.

"Yeah, like a million feet below us," Reid retorts hysterically.

Joe nips at his lower lip and then kisses him bruisingly until both of them are breathless. It really isn't fair of him to do this when Reid's trying to tell him something.

"Unless the unsub is Spiderman, I don't think we need to worry about him scaling the building," Joe says seriously.

(Okay, so it's a nonsensical argument, and if there's one thing Reid knows about unsubs it's that they should never be underestimated, but Joe looks so happy right now, so hopeful, and he's been through so much in such a short period of time and, God, Reid just wants him.)

"Stop," he says, pulling away, and a part of him hates himself for it but he can't keep the secret about Big Rob any longer, not after this. "There's something I need to tell you."

\--

Joe takes the news about as well as Reid would have expected - which, needless to say, is not terribly well. He raises himself up out of the hot tub and Reid begins to scramble after him, but one glare stops him in his tracks.

"Don't," Joe says - just one word, just _Don't_ , and his lips look flushed from the force with which he kissed Reid, with which Reid kissed him.

It's all Reid can do to stammer out an apology that he's not even sure Joe hears, judging by the speed he storms, dripping wet, into the house. Reid stands motionless in the hot tub for a few moments, shirt heavy and weighed down with water, before putting his head in his hands.

\--

He stays out there for about ten minutes, busying himself by stripping off his shirt and wringing it out over the hot tub. He wishes he'd brought his go-bag with him, but he didn't anticipate needing a change of clothes. This was supposed to be a straightforward pit stop for Joe to pack and get things in order before leaving for the safe house, not... not what it had ended up becoming.

He jumps as the glass door slides open and Joe pads out onto the balcony in a bathrobe that's several sizes too big for him, eyes rimmed with red. Reid suddenly doesn't know what to do with his arms, so he drops the shirt next to the hot tub and jams his hands into his wet pockets with a squelch.

"Are you still..." He trails off. _Are you still mad at me?_ is less federal agent and more sixth-grader than he should be going for. "Are you okay?"

"Big Rob... has been everywhere with us," Joe says dully, "since, like, forever. He joined our family in 2007. My younger brothers basically grew up with him around. For real."

"I know," Reid says. He really does (Feggans was never a serious suspect, but the team had checked him out anyway to see if anything popped), although he's going for more of an empathetic _I know_ than a _Yes, you are factually accurate_ one.

"How can he just be..." Joe's eyes are glassy, and although they're aimed in Reid's direction it feels as if Joe's looking straight through him. His expression darkens. "Did they get the guy?"

"Not that I know of," Reid responds carefully. "Although my phone is inside, so..."

Joe turns and walks back into the apartment again, leaving the door open this time, which Reid assumes is an invitation. The other man keeps going, right through the living room and into the bedroom, and Reid stands awkwardly, trying not to drip all over the floor until Joe returns with a hoodie and some sweatpants.

"Thanks," Reid says cautiously, and Joe doesn't reply, just curls into himself on one end of the big couch, looking away from Reid and out into the dark night.

Reid considers going into Joe's room to change, but he's not sure that would be okay anymore so he ducks behind a really large, _really_ ugly floor lamp and shimmies out of his wet clothes right there in Joe's living room, watching the other man the whole time. Joe never moves, never glances at him once.

"Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if our careers hadn't taken off," Joe says after Reid finishes, abruptly breaking the silence as he stares off into the distance.

Once again, Reid isn't sure what to do. He sits uncertainly on one arm of an armchair, and the motion dislodges a droplet from the end of a tendril of his hair. It slides wetly between the borrowed hoodie and his bare skin, and he barely manages to hold back his gasp.

"Like, what if we hadn't been signed as a group act?" Joe continues absently. Reid wonders if he's even aware he's speaking aloud. "What if the past seven years never happened and Nick was the only famous one, and he commuted to New York to be on Broadway and we'd all still live on Lakewood or at least go back there for the holidays, and we'd have graduated from St. Elizabeth's and we'd sing in church on Sundays but it wouldn't be our whole lives, it wouldn't be what people knew us for, and I could be a photographer or a small-time director or just have like a nine-to-five job, and maybe I'd be happy with that, you know? And then Big Rob would be alive even if I didn't know him, and Nathan would be alive, and Wally, and Clayton..."

He trails off, swallowing furiously, his Adam's apple bobbing with emotion, but Reid isn't paying attention to his words anymore - he's staring at the picture, the collage above the couch, and repositioning the ribbons of paper in his mind.

"You said Lakewood?"

Joe turns to look at him. "Huh?"

"Lakewood Drive?"

"...Yeah, Lakewood Drive. How did you -"

"Right there." Reid stands and points to the bottom of one of the ribbons. There's a sliver of a street sign there, just the _OD_ and the _DR_ upside-down, but that's what it is, it has to be. "I need to take this thing apart."

"What?! Look, Parker gave that to me, I don't -"

Reid's blood runs cold. "Parker as in my Parker?"

Joe looks at him questioningly.

"I mean, gallery Parker? Parker from the gallery? The guy who introduced us?"

"Yeah, I - Parker Dunley, yeah. Why do you...?"

Reid bolts for his phone.

\--

Reid soon finds himself standing at Joe's kitchen table, trying to fit the strips of the dismantled collage together in a way that makes sense. The _OD DR_ did turn out to be a street sign, and he'd found the _IVE_ hidden elsewhere in the artwork, near the partial crest of the school Joe attended before he and his brothers got too famous.

Joe stands to the side and watches silently, looking oddly vulnerable in the bathrobe he'd donned after the hot tub incident. He isn't actively participating, but when Reid comes across something of indeterminate significance, he turns to Joe and Joe explains. The most chilling is probably the ripped photo of a clock radio - _Joe's_ clock radio, from when he lived with Garbowsky and another roommate, Jack Lawless. The clock is pictured at 7:05, which Joe informs him was the name of one of the songs on the Jonas Brothers' debut album.

"Joe, it looks like you've been stalked for years," Reid says gently. "This guy's been inside your apartment, your dressing rooms... This collage tells your whole life story. Everything since you and your brothers formed the band."

Joe frowns and shakes his head. "That's not possible. I would have -"

"Excuse me." Reid's cell lights up and he answers on the first ring. "Did you find him?"

"It's not Parker." Gideon sounds uneasy, unbalanced, the way he gets when there's been a break in a case but there are still some loose ends dangling in the wind. "It's Gregory Garbowsky. He's the unsub. He's in the Jonas Brothers' live band and he used to be Joe's roommate. He gave Parker the collage to give to Joe and told him to keep its origin a secret. We're trying to get a location on him now."

Stunned, Reid shuts the phone, and Joe looks at him questioningly.

"The guy at the studio when I was there - Gregory Garbowsky?"

"Garbo?"

"Yeah, we think he's -"

"Wait a second." Joe frowns and grabs his vibrating phone from the table next to him, eyes widening when he sees the display screen. "That's him. He's calling me right now."

"Is he calling from a cell phone?"

Joe barks out a disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, are you kidding me? He spent more of the past few years on tour than at home. I don't think he even has a land line."

"Okay, listen to me, we think he's the unsub."

The disbelief on Joe's face crystallizes into a frozen, skeptical smile. "No way."

Reid knows he doesn't have time to convince him and elects to prep him for the call instead. "Answer the phone, act natural and try to keep him talking. The longer you keep him on the line, the more likely we'll be able to trace the call."

"The call from _Garbo_?" Joe echoes, staring at Reid as if he thinks the other man's crazy, and Reid reaches out and touches his arm.

"You need to trust me," he says seriously, hoping the fragile bond they'd wrought before everything got messed up will be enough to get Joe to do as he asks.

Joe hesitates for a second before nodding definitively and picking up.

\--

"Hello?" 

Reid moves off to the living room to call Garcia, but he can hear Joe repeating Garbowksy's nickname, asking if he's there, before his own call is answered.

"Oracle of Quantico; speak if you deign to hear truth."

"Garcia, I need an emergency trace on a call to Joe Jonas' cell phone."

"Sure." Garcia's suddenly all business, and he can hear her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Go ahead."

He reads her the number, turning to glance at Joe, who looks stricken.

"What do you mean, you're tired?" Joe asks into the phone, sounding lost. There's a look in his eyes like his whole world's come crashing down around him - which, in a way, it has. Not only has his bodyguard been murdered, but it's looking like one of his best friends is the killer. "I... Garbo, how can you miss me? I saw you today."

Reid motions to keep him talking, and Joe nods. 

"What do you mean, you miss the way it _was_? I have no idea what you're talking about." Pause. "I... yeah, I remember that, but, Garbo, that was one time, that didn't -"

"Reid?" Garcia's voice interrupts his eavesdropping. She sounds shaken. "The call is coming from the same address as yours. He's calling from inside the house."

He drops the phone halfway through Garcia's assurance that she'll get him some backup.

"Joe, how would he get in the house?!" he demands.

Joe turns around slowly, phone still pressed to his ear and a look of abject fear on his face. "He has keys."

\--

Reid draws his gun and makes for the bedroom with Joe falling into step behind him. If Garbowsky's holed up anywhere, it would be here - a room that's no doubt centrally featured in his fantasies about Joe - but his hiding place is a good one. He senses movement behind him and spins around to find Garbowsky aiming at Joe's head with a gun.

"Why did you have to bring these people here?" Garbowsky asks Joe, before turning to Reid. "Put down the gun."

Reid obliges. "Garbo..." he begins.

"Don't call me that. You don't know me. Come on, Joe, let's go."

Joe's looking at Reid with huge, scared eyes, and all Reid wants to do is charge in and save him, but he knows he has to be smart about this for any of them to have a hope of getting out alive.

"You don't need to hurt him," he tells Garbowsky quietly.

"You don't know anything." Garbowsky's chiseled good looks are twisted into an expression of ugly, wild-eyed intensity. He pets Joe's hair, pushing it back behind his ears. "I would never do anything to hurt you. I created you."

Joe, to his credit, remains calm. "We created ourselves, Garbo. Me and my family. My dad put our band together, and my solo act is all me. You're just our bass player; you didn't create me."

"Yes. I. Did." Garbowsky's voice is terrifying now, incredulous and outraged. Reid swallows. The situation could get volatile very quickly. "I was with you from the _beginning_ , Joe, _God_ , you ungrateful - I can't believe I loved you."

The gun is still pointed at Joe's head, and the hand it's being held with is trembling with rage. Reid grabs his chance to defuse the situation - or, at the very least, get the gun pointed away from Joe.

He clears his throat. "Garbo, he, uh... he loves me now."

The plan works just as he thought it would. Garbowsky instantly turns the gun on him, a look of disbelief on his face. " _What_?" he demands.

"He told me so, in the hot tub," Reid continues carefully, aiming to inject just enough truth to make Joe's reactions realistic. If this plays out the way he thinks it will, the knowledge will break Garbowsky. "He kissed me, and now he loves me, okay?" He looks at Joe. "Tell him we kissed in the hot tub."

The expression on Joe's face is heartbreaking. He looks at Reid fearfully, and Reid nods as reassuringly as he can. 

"We did," Joe chokes out. "We kissed."

Garbowsky lunges at Joe and Reid pounces, grabbing the arm with the gun in it and twisting so the firearm discharges harmlessly into the ceiling. He tackles Garbowsky to the ground and points the gun at him.

"Don't move," he orders, and Garbowsky's crying now - huge, wracking sobs that shake his whole body as he begs Reid to take his life. Reid can see Joe in his peripheral vision, backed against a wall with his hands over his face as they hear people breaking down the apartment's front door.. 

"We're going to get you help," Reid tells Garbowsky, lowering the gun and putting a hand on his shoulder.

\--

Everything seems to move very quickly after Garbowsky's arrested. Needless to say, the media attention is huge, and Joe's slated to do interviews with everyone from _E! News_ to _60 Minutes_. He insists on coming to the station to say goodbye to the team, but even that's a major endeavor, given the crowd of journalists and photographers now following his every move. 

"It's like I'm the face of stalking now," he murmurs to Reid. "And because of that, _they_ have the right to stalk me. Crazy, huh? Like, in what world does that make sense?"

Reid grimaces. "Not this one." 

He doesn't know how Joe does it. If it were him, he'd want to distance himself from the press completely, but he supposes Joe feels an obligation to use his celebrity to speak out for the cause. Then again, it doesn't seem like he has much of a choice.

"Is that everything?" Hotch asks, standing in the middle of the bullpen looking like a cop directing traffic. The boards with the details of Garbowsky's crimes and the photos of his victims have been taken down, the items placed in a series of boxes piled on Kim's desk, and JJ's chatting with the LAPD's PR secretary in one corner of the room. 

"Looks like we're good to go, Hotch," she calls, looking up from her conversation, and Hotch nods at her briskly. 

"JJ, Morgan, Reid, Elle, wheels up in forty-five, traffic permitting. Gideon's already outside in one of the SUVs; Morgan will be driving the other." One corner of his mouth twitches, which is about as close as Reid's ever come to seeing him smile. "Try not to step on any paparazzi on your way out."

Reid and Joe look at each other helplessly. Reid just wants a second alone together, but with all these people trying to get a piece of Joe and Hotch eager for the team to leave, there's no way that's going to happen.

"I guess this is -" Joe begins, but is quickly interrupted by the PR woman. 

"Mr. Jonas, you can leave through the back entrance if you're looking to avoid..." She trails off, gesturing to the melee outside. "...That."

Joe nods and Reid's glad for him, happy he can get a brief respite from the media circus that's become his life. 

"It was good to meet you," Reid manages, looking down at the floor in fear that anyone who sees him meet Joe's eyes will be able to instantly see _everything_ he's feeling.

"Yo, Reid." It's Morgan, nudging him in the arm. "You can go out the back way with him, if you like. I can bring the car around."

Reid could kiss him at that moment, and his gratitude must show in his face because Morgan jokes, "We'll talk about how you can repay me later." He nods toward Hotch, who's already halfway out the front door. "Right now, though, time is of the essence."

Reid nods, and Joe puts a hand on his elbow as they hustle toward the back exit. It feels more tender than when Reid's colleagues do it - almost like, if they weren't in front of all these people, he'd be holding Reid's hand instead. 

They shake hands with the PR lady and Joe places a call to his brother, who has apparently been waiting around the corner to come pick him up and make a quick getaway. Reid laughs when Joe tells him that. They're cramped in a stairwell waiting for a call to say Nick's outside, and the noise echoes off the concrete walls.

"Wouldn't it be less obtrusive to have a driver pick you up or something?" Reid questions.

"Probably, but at this point Nick doesn't want me out of his sight." 

Reid bites his lip. "Understandable." 

"He flew all the way out from New York for me, so I figured the least I could do was let him be a little overprotective. Also, he picked me up some Starbucks," Joe adds lightly.

Reid admires him so much in that moment - how he can be so positive this soon after his world got turned upside-down, after one of his best friends nearly killed him and _did_ kill his bodyguard, and as if that wasn't enough, now he's in the middle of a media frenzy that has him hiding in a service entrance until his brother comes to spirit him away. 

Joe grins crookedly at him. "What?"

Reid realizes he's smiling and reddens instantly. "Nothing."

"Uh-huh." Joe raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

"I'm just... glad to have known you," Reid admits with a shrug.

"Past tense?"

It's not that Reid wants it to be so, but it isn't as if their paths are ever likely to cross again, and he says as much. 

"Hey, but you have my number, right? And, listen, if I do a DC date on tour, will you come?"

Joe asks that as if it's really important to him, and the rawness in his voice removes any doubt that it's just a polite invitation. Reid doesn't have to be a profiler to know that. Asking him to commit to doing something on any particular day is like trying to nail Jello to a wall given his line of work, but if he's around (and he hopes he will be), he'd love to go, and he tells Joe so. Joe says to just let him know closer to the time and not worry about buying a ticket, and Reid never thought he'd be the kind of person who was on a guest list for a concert - but, then again, he wasn't the type to make out in a hot tub, either, or at least he hadn't been until he met Joe.

Joe's phone rings then, and Reid realizes he hadn't properly processed how little time they have left together until now. 

"I have to leave," Joe says apologetically, pushing open the heavy metal door, and Reid catches a glimpse of a nervous-looking young man who looks like a curlier-haired version of Joe sitting in the driver's seat of the car parked outside. 

The man - presumably Nick - rolls down the window and calls, "Joe, I think they made us. We gotta go."

The back entrance is gated off but sure enough, Reid can see telltale flashes from the street. Joe's halfway through the door before Reid reaches out to grab his wrist, saying his name in a tone of voice that's a lot more desperate than he would've liked. 

Joe glances back at him, looking anguished, and all Reid can think to say is, "Does Nick know? About - about you?"

"He's cool," Joe assures him, then leans in and presses his lips to Reid's, quick but intense. It's as if Reid's brain shorts out, completely turns to fuzz until Joe pulls away and says, "I'll hit you up about DC when I know for sure, okay? I promise."

Reid nods because he doesn't trust himself to speak, then looks over Joe's shoulder at Nick, who's watching them fondly despite looking immensely stressed.

"I have to leave," Joe repeats, reaching out to caress Reid's cheekbone with the tip of his index finger, and then he's gone and Morgan's pulling in, unlocking the doors of the SUV so he can scramble into the back.

\--

"Reid."

They're on the jet back to headquarters and everyone's asleep but Reid himself, JJ, who's looking through case files, and Morgan, who'd spoken.

Morgan's voice is low, as if he's trying to make sure JJ doesn't hear their conversation from the other end of the plane, which means Reid already knows what's coming. He's pretty sure Morgan figured out his... _predilections_ when they'd gone in to question Joe at the police station, but between the two of them working different aspects of the case, being around other people when they _had_ been in the same room and oh, yeah, catching a serial killer, the other man had been unable to confront Reid until now.

"You know what, Morgan, I'd really rather not disc -"

"You should've told me, kid."

His tone isn't accusatory, but there's a sadness to it as if... as if he feels betrayed. That's it, Reid realizes. Morgan's hurt he didn't tell him - didn't "come out" to him or whatever, and the thought of sitting Morgan down and making a huge confession has a half-hysterical giggle threatening to rise in his throat.

"I really didn't see it as something anybody needed to know," he replies quietly, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

Morgan laughs incredulously but without malice. "It's kind of a big part of a person, don't you think? Who they're attracted to?"

"Does it affect the way I do my job?" Reid questions pointedly. "Does it change how willing you are to work with me?"

"Reid, of course not." Morgan sounds a little offended that he could even think that. "It's just - it's weird none of us knew about that aspect of you for all this time, you know?"

Reid shrugs. "It's not even that large a part of _my_ life, so why should I have felt it necessary to introduce it into yours? In case it escaped your notice, Morgan, I don't exactly date a lot, so it's essentially a non-issue."

"Seems like that might be about to change, kid, if the way Joe was looking at you back at the station was any indication."

He grins, and Reid resists the urge to fidget uncomfortably. "Shut up."

Morgan winks at him. "Looked like he might've been wanting to slip you into his lava, if you know what I'm saying."

"...Beyond deducing that that was a rather clumsy sexual allusion, I actually have no idea what you're referring to."

"You've seriously never heard _Burning Up_?" Morgan shakes his head in amazement. "It was all over the radio a few years ago. Sometimes I forget you live in a cultural vacuum."

"I do not!" Reid protests, just as a shadow passes over Morgan's face. "What is it?"

Morgan sighs heavily. "I just remembered Feggans rapped on the song."

Reid bites his lip and curls into himself on the padded seat, suddenly subdued. "Oh."

Neither of them really knows what to say after that, and to be honest, Reid's glad when Morgan puts on his headphones and settles back against the wall by his seat. Reid takes out a book but finds it difficult to concentrate, what with the images whirling in his head of Nathan Ryan and his fiancée lying dead in their bungalow, Joe's face when he found out Feggans had been murdered, the look in Joe's eyes when he'd realized Garbowsky was the unsub. His mind drifts to the warmth of Joe's fingertip on his cheek when they'd said goodbye, a memory that sends a twinge through his chest every time he recounts it.

It's almost a relief when he falls into an unsettled, dreamless sleep.

\--

It's dark by the time the team arrives back in DC and everyone's pretty wiped out from the journey, even the ones who slept the whole way. Elle calls it _jet sleep_ \- the weird half-in, half-out rest they get in the air - and Reid tried to explain why it isn't as restorative as regular sleep once, but halfway through the second sentence, her eyes had glazed over. 

He and Morgan are the last ones in the office tonight, and he keeps sneaking looks at the other agent, trying to work up to saying what he wants to. Finally, Morgan ambles over to his desk and stands there silently with a knowing smile on his face.

"Uh. Hi?" Reid says questioningly.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me?" Morgan prompts. "Say, about your boy back in Hollywood?"

He draws out the third syllable, smirking, and Reid blushes furiously.

"No," he says firmly. Morgan waits. "Maybe."

"Well, c'mon, lover boy, I don't have all night."

"Morgan," Reid says reprovingly.

The other man holds up his hands. "Okay, I'll be serious, I'll be serious. Shoot."

Reid glares at him suspiciously.

"Cross my heart and hope to die?" Morgan tries.

Reid can't help but smile, which he's pretty sure is what Morgan was aiming for. "You know, that phrase was first recorded in 1908 and is thought to have originated as a religious oath."

"That's fascinating, Reid, but, oh, look." Morgan pulls his phone out of his pocket. "That's my bed calling me."

Reid purses his lips.

"You wanna tell me what's really on your mind, kid? No stalling this time."

Sometimes it really sucks to work with a bunch of profilers. 

"Did you know that, um," Reid begins, and Morgan leans against the edge of his desk, waiting patiently. "He, uh. I kissed him? In the hot tub on his balcony?"

He'd been a bit worried Morgan would be weirded out by the admission despite the conversation they'd had on the jet, but Morgan just grins at him, flashing his brilliant white teeth. He looks pleased for Reid - glad, even - and it makes Reid feel lucky that he has someone to confide in like this. 

"It was so weird," he continues, less haltingly now. "It doesn't even feel like it really happened, you know? I was trying to explain to him about transference and the fact that he probably only liked me because I was there to protect him, and -"

"Reid," Morgan interrupts. "Don't go selling yourself short, kid. You were his hero."

Reid can't help but laugh at him. "Joe was hardly a damsel in distress, come on."

"You took down an armed subject without firing a shot. You saved a life. That's pretty much a hero in my book."

Mainly Reid just doesn't like to shoot people, especially in front of someone who isn't used to seeing that kind of thing, but he supposes it might've looked pretty... heroic... maybe. He takes a deep breath.

"Let me ask you this - have you ever crossed professional boundaries with a... a victim?" 

He hates to think of Joe that way, but those were the roles they had played, after all - Spencer Reid, FBI agent, and Joe Jonas, stalking victim - although it pains him to reduce them both to stereotypes when everything went so much deeper than that. 

Morgan shrugs awkwardly. "No," he says, almost apologetic, as if he knows that's not the answer Reid wants to hear.

"It's pretty bad, right?"

"There are some things you can't control even with that big old brain of yours." Morgan shrugs again, more relaxed this time. "No harm, no foul, yeah? Don't beat yourself up about it. Let it go."

Everything Morgan's saying makes sense, but as the other man turns to leave, Reid can't seem to stop himself from asking one last question.

"Hey, Morgan? Has there ever been a... a girl that you wanted to be with for more than, you know, just one night?"

"Excuse me?"

There's a slight edge to his voice, and perhaps Reid could've phrased that better. "I - I mean, I've never seen you with the same girl twice," he elaborates, and, oh, that's - that probably sounds even worse.

"You calling me a dog?" Morgan's not mad, exactly, more defensive, but regardless, this isn't the turn Reid wanted the conversation to take. 

"No, no, not - not at all, I'm just." He takes a deep breath, wills himself to stop stuttering and then continues more slowly, "I'm just trying to figure out if, ah, this feeling I have is ever gonna go away."

"Reid, what we do for a living takes up all our time, and a relationship's hard enough even in the same city," Morgan says gently, like he's trying to let him down easily. Reid knows that's true, although there's an ache in his chest where his heart is beating _But - but - but_ against his ribs. 

"So, I mean, you're saying it's probably wise that I - I don't call him, right?"

Morgan shakes his head slowly. "I can't answer that one for you."

"Yeah." Reid bites his lip, stares down at the corduroy piping on his pants. "I know that. I'm sorry if I - okay."

"Hey, I'll tell you what I do know."

Reid looks up hopefully.

"You don't need to come up with that answer tonight."

Reid sighs. Morgan's right, of course, and he nods with the kind of finality that indicates he knows it. "Have a good night."

With that, Morgan shrugs on his leather jacket and heads for the door, calling over his shoulder, "You too, Romeo."

Reid only blushes a little.

\--

When he walks into work a couple of days later, everyone's staring at him. He thinks he's imagining it at first, but it gets so bad that he excuses himself to go to the bathroom and check for food between his teeth or an outfit that clashes more than usual. He finds nothing, and he's still peering, mystified, at his reflection when Gideon walks in a few moments later.

"You pass any newsstands today?" Gideon asks gruffly, and of course Reid did - he takes the subway - but why would...? "You might want to borrow Elle's _Us Weekly._ "

Oh. Oh, God.

\--

It could be worse, Reid supposes, after he'd gone fire engine red upon seeing the magazine cover and bid a hasty retreat back to the bathroom. It's not as if he's really in the picture at all, save for the barest sliver of his hair, but it's more the intrusion on the moment that has him off his guard, the way something private and precious between two people had ended up as a grainy photo with _JOE'S SECRET SQUEEZE?_ splashed across it in bright yellow letters. One of the paparazzi by the gate at the LAPD headquarters must have had a _ridiculous_ telephoto lens to capture an image of Joe reaching out to touch Reid's cheek like that, and thank _God_ Reid's identity was hidden by that metal door. It's chilling for Reid to imagine what could've happened if he'd followed Joe out to the car and provided an opportunity to get a clear shot of his face - not that Joe would have let him do that, but still.

He splashes his face with cold water and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. _It could be worse_ , he repeats to himself.

\--

Life goes on after Reid's brush with Hollywood, of course. There are other cases - always other cases - but Reid does eventually check in with Joe, and Joe seems pleased to hear from him. 

They'd spoken briefly a few times since, enough to qualify as staying in touch, but between Reid traveling all over the country and Joe - well, Joe doing the same, although for very different reasons, there's never much time to talk. 

Reid's also kind of afraid of bothering Joe, who he figures must have a lot on his plate between traveling and doing interviews and, once his tour kicks off, actually performing, and besides, he's not entirely convinced the other man's interest in him wasn't solely a product of transference, which was bound to wane after the threat had been eliminated. He tries not to dwell on it too much, submerging himself in his work as the date of the DC concert creeps closer on the calendar with no word from Joe, and he wonders if he ought to remind him or whether it's easier just to take the hint and walk away.

\--

It's the day before the concert and the wheels of the jet have barely touched back down at headquarters after a particularly harrowing case - aren't they all, though, if Reid thinks about it? - when his phone vibrates with a text message.

_please tell me your not in guadalahara or somewhere right now.  
we still good for tomorrow?_

Reid ducks his head, hoping none of his colleagues had noticed the huge grin that inadvertently spread across his face.

 _Guadalajara's not in our jurisdiction, nor does it have an H in it_ , he types. _And yes, barring any unforeseen circumstances, I'll be there._ His finger hovers over the _Send_ button before he adds, on impulse, _Wouldn't miss it for the world._

He second-guesses himself immediately after sending his reply, but if the string of smiley faces he gets in response are anything to go by, he made the right decision.

\--

Reid's panicking slightly by the time he walks into the office. He'd been anticipating the concert for a while, but now that it's essentially a sure thing, he's suddenly nervous. After all, the last time he went to a concert to meet up with a celebrity he once made out with in a hot tub was _never_ , so he takes the best course of action he can think of in this situation - he goes to find Garcia.

\--

Garcia takes one look at him standing in the doorway of her domain and beams. "Can I just say, Spencer Reid, how thrilled I am that you deigned to come to _me_ to help you prepare for your big date with Joe Jonas?"

"It's not a - How did you...?" Reid shifts his feet awkwardly. "Garcia, did Morgan tell you about what happened in California?"

"No, sugar, I'm omniscient, remember?"

He blinks at her and she makes a face.

"Also an avid reader of _Us Weekly_ who just _happened_ to check Mr. Jonas' tour dates to find out when he'd be in our neck of the woods."

Knowing Garcia saw the picture of the private moment he shared with Joe makes Reid want to melt through the floor, but she consoles him quickly by bustling over to pat him on the arm, the pink plumed pen she has in her hand leaving little sparkles of glitter on his cardigan.

"Don't worry, my sweet, it's not like anybody outside of this office could tell. I just put two and two together and made Jencer."

"Jencer?"

"Your portmanteau. Like Brangelina, or Morcia."

He stares at her blankly.

"The name for two people who are - or should be - a couple?" She phrases it as a question, like she can't believe he doesn't know. "Brangelina is Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie."

"Brad Pitt's the actor, right?"

Garcia's face contorts in exaggerated pity. "Oh, honey. Come here. Let Garcy expand the poor, underdeveloped celebrity cortex of your genius brain."

"That's not a real -" he objects, and Garcia shushes him.

\--

So Garcia makes him, like, catalog his wardrobe for her, which he doesn't understand the point of because he basically owns the same two outfits in an assortment of different colors, if you don't include his weddings-and-funerals suit. She even opens a document for the list on one of her many screens, which makes him nervous.

"Garcia, I was kind of just planning on going straight from work. I figured I'll just wear whatever I gravitate to in the morning?"

She spins halfway around in her chair, stopping dead when she meets his eyes. "I'm going to assume that was a joke in order to preserve what's left of my sanity."

"But -"

She raises her right index finger and points it at him. The nail's painted green and there are silver polka dots on it. "I'd appreciate your assistance in this endeavor."

He's not really sure what to say to that, so he just nods.

"Now," she says, tone snapping into businesslike as she spins back to her computer, "I'm going to let you in on a little secret - I've always been partial to the Jonai."

Reid frowns at the spark of jealousy this elicits inside him. It's not like Joe's his to be possessive of, after all. 

"And, if I may, you snagged the hottest of the trio."

He bites his lip.

"Oookay, I may not."

"I just..." Reid begins, then shakes his head. "Forget it, Garcia, I should go."

She doesn't turn around, just raises the hand that's holding the pen and says, very calmly, "Spencer Reid, if you take one step toward that door, I will aim the tip of this pen at your aorta."

"Garcia, I don't think it's sharp enough to pierce my -"

"Try me."

He stays put. 

"Good boy." 

She's been focused on her computer this whole time, eyeing the list and pulling up websites and occasionally typing something. As Reid watches, he realizes she's mixing and matching the options he gave her, trying to find the best combination with the help of some visual cues.

"You look good in gray," she says decisively. "And ties. Definitely go with a tie. And you have to have jeans, Reid. Tell me you have jeans."

"I... somewhere?" he replies uncertainly. 

She claps her hands together and he jumps, startled. "Done. Dress the jeans up with a _pressed_ white shirt and tie, and if you must wear a cardigan -"

"I must," he asserts.

"- Then make it the gray one. Got it?"

"I think so."

"Wrong answer. You know so."

"I - okay."

She makes a couple of definitive keystrokes and then swivels around in her chair to face him, her tone softening as she says, "Sweetheart, really, it's going to be fine."

He looks at his feet. "I liked this a lot better when I didn't have to worry about impressing him."

Garcia doesn't respond immediately and he thinks maybe she's trying not to laugh at him, but when he glances up, her eyes are wide and empathetic. 

"Oh, honey, no," she says quietly. "Is that what you thought this was about? You've already impressed him. He already likes you! This is just to help you reconfirm that, you know, even though you haven't seen each other in a while, you are totally worth the wait." She beams at him, then adds hastily, "Not that you weren't already, but as one of my very favorite fashion columnists once said, blue jeans are the most beautiful things since the gondola."

"Diana Vreeland," Reid cites absently.

Garcia puts a hand to her heart. "See, and you have that whole boy genius thing going for you as well. You're the whole package, buttercup, and don't you forget it."

\--

Whole package or not, Reid isn't feeling particularly confident when he wakes up on the morning of the big day. He packs his concert clothes carefully, planning on telling anyone who asks that he's bringing a new go-bag into work, but of course, nobody does. 

He waits on tenterhooks for JJ, Hotch or Gideon to bustle in and say they've caught a case in far-flung nowhere and wheels are up in half an hour, but as the work day passes, that doesn't happen. He's even semi-productive, forcing himself to catch up on paperwork and get his case files in order, and he meets with Gideon about fine-tuning the training sessions they're scheduled to deliver to the Boise Police Department next month. 

Garcia demands to see his outfit as the end of the day approaches, so he changes in the bathroom and slinks into her office a little shyly, hoping she doesn't make too much of a fuss.

She turns around with a big smile on her face that slowly fades as she takes in his appearance. He tugs nervously at his tie.

"What's wrong? I know you said to press the shirt, but it got a bit wrinkled on the subway -"

"You look perfect," she breathes, which stuns him into silence. "Oh, my goodness, Reid, he's gonna want to jump your bones tonight."

Reid's cheeks are on _fire_ , but he doesn't get a chance to respond before she exhales dramatically.

"And to think I helped put this vision together. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride."

"I'm hardly a bride, Garcia."

She grins. "Not yet, anyway."

\--

In a funny way, talking to Garcia helped to settle him, briefly calming the butterflies in his stomach. The trouble was, once he'd bid her farewell and set off for the venue, his distractions were no more. 

He's about to cross the line from nerves to straight-up panic when his phone rings, and it's Joe. Joe sounds the same as always - the same guy he'd met at the gallery, got to know at the recording studio, kissed in the hot tub - which makes him realize he was stupid to get so worked up. It's just Joe, the same Joe, and the fact that he'll be on a stage tonight while Reid's in the audience shouldn't change that. He takes a deep breath and focuses on what the other man's saying.

"So if you just go around to the back and give them your name, they'll let you right through."

"Of - of the place?"

"Yeah, unless you don't want to hang out in my dressing room before the show," Joe teases.

"Um, no, I, I'd like that very - very much," Reid stutters, feeling warm inside when he hears Joe crack up.

\--

When Reid arrives at the venue, he does a double take. He was definitely expecting something bigger. He'd gone back online, seen the pictures of Joe and his brothers playing to huge arenas, but he supposes one brother alone doesn't have the same pull as three. He bites his lip. Not to most people, anyway.

\--

He gets backstage without incident, and he's kind of wondering whether he should be looking for a star on a door that says _Joe Jonas_ when Joe comes strolling up beside him and taps him on the back. 

If it were anybody else, Reid probably would have mildly chastised them for startling him, but when he turns around, the words die on his lips. Joe looks... he just looks _really good_ in his black pants and red sneakers and a jacket rolled up to his elbows. 

Joe seems similarly impressed with him, because he spreads his hands and just stares in silence for a few seconds before saying, "Spencer, wow."

Reid wills himself not to blush or do anything else stupid, and it must work because Joe doesn't laugh or make faces at him, just touches him gently on the arm and says, "Let me show you to my dressing room so we can say hi properly."

\--

There are a lot of people backstage, wandering around with sound equipment and beers and miscellaneous stage paraphernalia, and although nobody is really paying attention to Reid and Joe, the latter relaxes visibly as the door to his dressing room clicks shut. 

"I usually, you know, like to feed off everyone else's energy to get amped up for the show, but..." He trails off, waving his hand vaguely.

"Tonight's different?" Reid asks, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

Joe's lips curve up at the edges. "Yeah, you could say that. Come here."

Reid steps toward him and Joe sweeps him into his arms. It's all very dramatic, very black-and-white movie, but before Joe does anything else, he buries his face in Reid's neck and exhales happily.

"Hey," he murmurs, breath hot and tickly against Reid's skin.

Reid slides his fingers through Joe's hair and responds softly, "Hello."

"This is what I really wanted to do the last time we saw each other," he admits, voice half muffled, and Reid swallows.

"Me too," he manages.

Joe extricates himself and stands solemnly in front of him, clasping Reid's cheeks in his hands. "I'm really sorry about the whole _Us Weekly_ thing."

"It wasn't your fault."

"And I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first about Garbo."

"Let's, um. I don't blame you for that at all, but let's not talk about him, okay?"

Joe nods. "I wanted to do this, too."

"Do what?" Reid begins, and Joe tilts his chin up and kisses him, slow and deep.

\--

Reid had shown up a while before the show was due to start, but time apparently flies when one's making out with a Jonas Brother because it feels like barely a few minutes have passed before someone's knocking on the door of the dressing room and telling Joe he needs to get ready.

Embarrassed, Reid pulls away instantly, trying in vain to smooth down the hair Joe had mussed with his fingers. It's like the hot tub all over again, except with less chlorine and more clothes. Joe grabs his wrist, beaming, and rubs his thumb over Reid's pulse point.

"After I finish tour - if this is cool with you - maybe I could fly out here for a couple days so we can finally, you know, make out without being interrupted?" Joe questions nervously, like there's a real possibility Reid will say no, and Reid's so thrilled by the suggestion all he can do is nod.

\--

Reid's never been to this kind of concert before, and the fact that Joe's demographic seems to be younger females doesn't exactly help him blend in. There's a railing that looks out onto the stage at each side of the venue, and he bides his time until someone on the left gives up their spot, feeling triumphant as he slides in to fill it. 

He'd been backstage with Joe when the opening act performed, so everyone's hyped up from that and the impending appearance of the artist they all came to see. It's strange for him to be standing here among all these people, knowing that he'd been kissing the object of their ardor not so long ago. 

Presently, the lights go down, and the crowd screams louder than anything Reid's ever heard. 

\--

Reid might be biased because it's Joe, but he actually really enjoys the show. Joe's amazing onstage; it's like performing is an outlet for all the energy he doesn't know how else to burn off, and he looks _good_ up there, too - dancing and sweaty, moving to the music. Reid can't help but laugh with recognition when Joe starts the _Tell me what you want and I'll give it_ song he'd been recording at the studio the day Reid was there. He'd liked it then, but it sounds a hundred times better live - and the fact that Joe affixes him with his smoldering gaze as he sings _Let me do all the little things you like_ doesn't hurt either. 

He'd almost think he imagined that if a girl in the second row hadn't turned around and glared daggers at him, and he has to make a concerted effort not to grin.

\--

"There are only a couple songs left before I have to say goodnight to you guys," Joe begins a while later, the sweat glistening on his biceps after several up-tempo songs in a row, and the crowd groans. He raises his hand to silence them. "But, but, hey. I'm gonna be serious for a second now, so." 

The audience instantly quiets down, a thousand faces turned attentively in his direction, waiting to hear what he's going to say next. Reid marvels at the power he has over them.

"Not so long ago, someone I thought was my friend killed someone I _know_ was my friend," Joe says frankly, and Reid's aware he must have delivered this speech at every show but his voice still wavers in the middle. "The story's been all over the news, but I won't go into it any more than that because I, honestly, I don't like to, but everyone who bought my album, _Fastlife_..." (there are a few screams) "...you'll know there's a song at the end of it that doesn't quite fit with the rest of them, and that's intentional, because it wasn't supposed to."

Someone walks out and puts a chair in the middle of the stage, and Joe nods in thanks before continuing, " _Fastlife_ is really upbeat and dancey, but that song at the end isn't like that, because it's a tribute to our late bodyguard, Big Rob, who passed way before his time. So, if it's cool with you guys, I'd like to slow things down for a minute. This is _Guardian_."

Reid had no idea Joe wrote a song about the experience they'd shared - the one that brought them together, took Feggans' life and placed both his and Joe's in danger. He's hit with a fresh wave of admiration for Joe as the opening chords swell and the applause fades in a room that's now, for the most part, respectfully quiet. Joe perches on the chair, clasping his microphone as he waits for his cue to sing. He catches Reid's eye for a second and one corner of his mouth twitches into a sad smile before he bows his head and begins,

_I never said it, but I hope you knew_  
 _How much it meant, the time I spent with you_  
 _Life's not forever, but memories don't end_  
 _I'll remember you always for being a friend_  
 _And a guardian._


End file.
